Alone with a stranger
by Winter
Summary: Fara saves the life of a young wolf on the verge of death and comes to a surprising conclution


Alone with a stranger  
  
By Edward "Winter" Weldon  
  
Zoness is so beautiful from orbit. The planet's restoration from a toxic waste dump to its former   
glory was probably the greatest achievement of Corneria and her allies following Andross's   
defeat a year ago. Once again the oceans thrived. The flight deck is one of my favourite places   
in the whole universe. From here I can watch the stars with out the chatter of the bridge or the   
clutter of the lounge.  
  
I look down into the landing bay. Peppy and Fox are playing golf again. They're own particular   
brand of golf. The two of them take turns to hit a hand grenade into a bucket on the other side of   
the bay with the butt of an assault rifle. From Fox and Falco, this would seem right. But Peppy,   
old, wise, logical Peppy, this seems so…so, I don't know what.  
  
My train of thought is brought to a crashing halt as alarms blare. I rush to one of the comm   
panels on the wall. Slamming my fist against the intercom button, Slippy informs me that Rob   
just detected a ship in distress.  
  
About thirty minutes later I can see the ship. Grapnels are deployed and the small ship is pulled   
aboard. I'm already sprinting across the deck with Falco as soon as the Bay doors are open. The   
ship is a mangled wreck; the flattened, shark-like forward section looks relatively intact. That at   
least gives me some hope.  
  
With Falco's help we force the canopy open. What I see inside I…I hope never to see again. The   
pilot, a male wolf with grey fur and a white stripe, is barely alive. He is half frozen; blood   
covers his face and trickles from his nose and mouth. His pale blue eyes are open, looking at me.   
I can see the light fading from them.  
  
Franticly Falco and I lift the pilot out of his cockpit. Using one of the scalpels from my medkit, I   
slash down his black flight suit. The material is stiff with frozen blood. This young man can't be   
more than nineteen. That's far too young to die like this. His feeble breaths are so slight they   
barely register. Then he stops breathing altogether.  
  
No, I won't let him die. The war cost too many live. Too many young men and women like him   
didn't get the chance to live. I open my mouth and place it over his. I blow hard into his lungs.   
The metallic tang of blood almost makes me gag. Then I push down on his chest. His chest is   
covered with old burns, through my medical training I recognise them as plasma burns. How   
does some one this young get third degree plasma burns?  
  
That answer will have to wait. I shout instructions at Falco. He retrieves a syringe from my   
medkit and hands it to me. I stab it into the wolf's chest and inject his heart with a double shot of   
adrenaline.   
  
The portable monitor shows that his heart rate has doubled and that he is breathing, weakly but   
steadily. We lift him onto the stretcher and carry him up to the infirmary. I have to say that I   
have always been proud of Great Fox's sickbay. I have always insisted that a major part of our   
budget be spent on making sure we always had the very best medical gear available.  
  
I stay with him. Falco left about two hours ago, but I stay by his side. What happened to him?   
Pirates? A system malfunction? Dying alone, slowly being strangled by the cold and lack of   
pressure, that's no way for anyone that young to die.  
  
"Just who are you?" I think to myself. There was no identification of any kind on his suit or the   
crushed hulk of metal that we prised him out of. The mysterious young wolf now floats nearby   
in a heated tank of saline solution, recovering from the effects of blunt trauma, extreme   
hypothermia and decompression.   
  
With the blood washed off his face and body, I must admit that he really is quite handsome. Not   
particularly well built, but in good shape all the same. With out his flight suit, I can see that the   
plasma scars cover his whole left arm, his chest and upper back.   
  
The question I asked myself one the flight deck repeats itself. But then Fox was about his age   
when he took command of the team and he has a long knife scar on his back from his fight with   
Wolf.  
  
Now I examine the knife that was strapped to his leg. It's quite a large one, double edged,   
definitely meant for combat. The blade is about ten inches of titanium, strait bladed with a   
serrated cutting edge on one side. The dagger's design is familiar somehow. It's quite clear he   
was a soldier of some kind. The lack of insignia would indicate an independent mercenary.   
  
Wait, there's an inscription on the blade, just above the hilt. The letters are worn but I can make   
them out. The engraving reads: To my son Reace, your courage gives me strength. And below   
them the initials: W.O'd.  
  
I place the knife back in its sheath. I turn back to the young man in the tank. Reace, so that's   
your name. And then the realisation hits me…   
  
To be continued…   
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
